


Dendrobium Ceraula

by Cynosure



Category: Elementary (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Birthdays, F/M, First Time, Fluff, Het, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-05
Updated: 2013-12-05
Packaged: 2018-01-03 13:50:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1071185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cynosure/pseuds/Cynosure
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joan had delivered herself to the Brownstone by way of her compassion and skill, her desire to rebuild the lives of others in the process of rebuilding her own. Fate had not rooted her to the spot, either. That was owed entirely to her fascination with the work, their mutual love of the bizarre, her budding skill as a detective, and – Sherlock hoped – an interest and affection for himself. </p>
<p>Fate should not be given credit for what Joan Watson had managed to accomplish by way of will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dendrobium Ceraula

**Author's Note:**

> Never written Elementary fic before! Thought I'd give it a whirl. Hopefully it isn't horrible. Thanks for reading. Possible smutty, bondage-y sequel if anyone wants it?

Sharp eyes darted over the figure standing upon the iced over steps just beyond the threshold of their home. The man was shifting from foot to foot with a cautious effort in a simultaneous attempt to keep the blood circulating below the hips and not send his face to an abrupt meeting with the cement. An oblong face twitched with nervousness, though Sherlock was unsure if it was habitual anxiety or discomfort under the scrutiny of his own glare. The word “ordinary” might well have been painted across his forehead, obviously not some sort of sleeper cell or would-be assassin. Though it was a possibility that his disguise was simply well-crafted, the mannerisms seemed far too sincere to be anything but genuine. Such shiftiness that could inspire suspicion belonged nowhere in a well thought out plan.

The only thing remotely remarkable about this person was positioned within the grip of his hand. An opaque glass vase, tall and rectangular, blossomed into an extravagant bouquet of dimmed lavender with hints of green and bright yellow, an unmistakable glimpse of white card stock peering up through the middle. Sherlock was nothing if not studied in nature, and found the flowers immediately identifiable. _Dendrobium ceraula._ The horned orchid. Indigenous to the Philippines, his mind provided. Must have been quite an effort (see: quite a paycheck) to manage an entire collection, even if it was supplemented by a smattering of fantastic yellow daisies. A gift, he inferred, though he could hardly see it being aimed at him.

Nonetheless, he waited expectantly for the man upon the porch to speak and state his business.

“Um, right,” the man (though Sherlock hesitated to call him a man; a boy, more like) murmured, pulling a slip of paper from his pocket, obviously weathered from the snow. “I don’t think you’re Joan Watson?”

“Correct assumption,” Sherlock responded, one hand still maintaining a firm grip on the doorknob, his body allowing nothing more than a sliver of their home to be visible. After such a great quantity of invasions to the Brownstone, he was nothing if not cautious. “And you are? A former suitor? Hardly a possibility. Far too young for Watson’s tastes.”

“What?” the boy stammered out, shaking his head. “No, I’m just… I do flower delivery. These are for her.”

“Hm,” Sherlock hummed, reaching out to snatch the card from within the bouquet, a protest falling from the delivery boy’s lips though it held no weight and he surely made no move to actually stop Sherlock’s actions. He recited aloud. “’You seemed to like them when we visited my parents. It’s been a while, but I wanted you to know I was thinking of you. Happy birthday, Joanie. Much love… Corey.’”

Sherlock jaw shifted, teeth grinding together nearly imperceptibly. He didn’t consider himself to be a particularly jealous lover, but he couldn’t help feeling a twinge of it. Though, there was a particular hesitance to use that word. A relationship was budding, surely. It had come to fruition after a rather lengthy discussion involving expectations and life goals that Sherlock found particularly strenuous. They’d engaged in physical contact that remained within the realm of what Joan insisted on referring to as “cuddling,” though it often strayed into a delicious routine of lips exploring every bit of skin above the shoulder. Even with a sex drive as active as his own, Sherlock was convinced he could sustain himself on that alone for ages.

It wasn’t that there was any reluctance to have sex. Neither had ever panicked at the thought of things going too far and hastily called off all action. For her part, Joan had never even made mention of the half-hardness that he had experienced from the stimulation. They carried on as they were until they simply were not anymore. Certainly, Sherlock was left with an irritating biological reaction, but he never pushed, content to advance on Joan’s terms.

Separate bedrooms had stayed in practice, though it was Joan who had once proposed otherwise.

_“You know that we can share a bed without having sex, right?”_

_“With an almost certain probability of you waking up with an erection tucked into your back? Terribly awkward.”_

_“I’m a grown woman, Sherlock, and definitely familiar with human biology at that. I can handle it.”_

_“And I am a grown man with an active and quite imaginative libido. If I’m to end up rutting against you like a mindless animal, I’d prefer the first time to be consciously.”_

“Is she here or do you wanna take these?” came an almost irritated (but not quite; the boy was not in the business of antagonizing anyone) voice from directly in front of him, Sherlock blinking rapidly as he became acutely aware that he was, in fact, still standing in the presence of the man. Wordlessly, he retrieved the vase and tucked the card back sloppily into the mass and began to reenter the home.

“Um. Most people tip us.”

With a huff – though it was more in irritation of being further delayed from waking up Watson than it was of having to rid himself of money – Sherlock knelt and reached under the table just inside the foyer to free a bill.

“Does one hundred work? Lovely. Be gone,” he said quickly, pressing the cash into the awestruck boy’s hand before shutting the door conclusively.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“How old?”

The body beneath the covers gave a start at the voice booming into her ears. The volume wasn’t quite the shocking aspect, but rather the suddenness of it.

“God, Sherlock,” she murmured, latching onto the edge of the comforter and pulling it up and over her head without even bothering to separate her eyelids. As quickly as Joan had enveloped her face in warmth, it was gone again. Sherlock’s doing.

“How old are you?”

“What?” she murmured, cracking her eyes and squinting at the figure bordered by the daylight streaming through her windows. It wasn’t often that she slept past 7:30 and forewent her jog – weather permitting – but Sherlock imagined that she would make an exception for such a day.  

“Thirty-six,” said the lump under the covers as her brain finally caught up with words being spoken to her. Rolling onto her back, her thin fingers rubbed across her furrowed brow.

“Were you thirty-six yesterday, or are you thirty-six today?” Sherlock questioned, voice as quick and sharp as it was in the interrogation of a suspect.

“Thirty-seven today,” Joan answered. A moment later, her eyes were fully open, studying the man’s face that was hovering over her. “How did you find out?”

In a simple, wordless motion, Sherlock had unceremoniously planted the vase on her bedside table (though it was rather more makeshift than actual woodwork). Pushing herself up onto her elbows, Joan smiled and retrieved the card, the facial expression only growing as she took in the kind words upon the paper. Ever steady and used to his mannerisms, her grin didn’t even falter as Sherlock continued to focus his gaze upon her face. “That’s sweet, isn’t it? I _love_ these.”

Sherlock simply hummed, fingering the petals of the extravagant blooms, the twitches of the muscles in his face doing little to hide the unwarranted jealousy that bubbled beneath his skin.

“Corey is a former boyfriend, I presume?” he asked, not exactly meeting Joan’s amused gaze. “Quite a serious one if you he escorted you all the way to the Philippines to meet his parents.”

As often as Joan rolled her eyes at the man, it was a marvel to her that they hadn’t simply gotten stuck in that position yet. After pulling his hand away from the flowers (she didn’t want them ruined; it was a beautiful arrangement), her hands reached out and all but forced Sherlock to sit on the small excess of mattress at her side. It proved much easier to look at him when he wasn’t lingering over her in a frankly creepy manner.

“ _Her_ name is Corina,” Joan pointed out, yawning and settling back against the pillows. “We met in med school and she took me out one summer to her house as a getaway. Not that I’m obligated to explain that to you, but you looked so frazzled that I thought I’d throw you a bone.”

“I am not frazzled,” Sherlock said, lifting his chin and very pointedly not admitting to a think. “Simply inquisitive.”

“Right,” Joan replied, shaking her head and letting her body morph into a stretch. “I’m supposed to have dinner with my parents and Oren tonight. Do you want to come?”

“No,” Sherlock said, a decision that he’d made at some point between discovering the importance of today’s date and now. “I have work to do. If you wish to have a celebration, I am all yours when you return home.”

Joan shrugged. It really wasn’t of any major consequence to her whether Sherlock tagged along or not, though she would have been happy had he wanted to. They hadn’t quite reached the familial obligations stage of their relationship yet.

“Suit yourself,” she replied. With a soft smile, she closed her eyes, tipping her head upward.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked immediately, head slightly cocked.

“Birthday kiss.”

Sherlock fixed her with a momentary gaze that conveyed exactly how ridiculous he thought the notion was. Without her eyes open, it was completely wasted, and he huffed. However, he had long taken to accepting any excuse to touch her and – this being no exception – leaned down to press his lips against her cheek, just next to her nose.

“That wasn’t what I meant,” she mumbled in complaint, though it was half-hearted as Sherlock had moved to plant another kiss at the corner of her mouth.

“You have appalling breath when you’ve just woken and have yet to brush your teeth,” he whispered before pulling back, a twitch of a smile tugging at one side of his lips.

It was only a moment before the swing of a pillow landed him against the floor.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Never in his life had Sherlock held the anniversary of one’s birth in any high regard. After all, childhood birthdays tended to be spent in the confines of stiff-upper-lipped boarding school, hiding away with a book and insect from relentless bullies. Not particularly fond memories, so the detective had never understood the hoopla around birthday celebrations.

What he did understand, however – a fairly recent development – was the honoring of a passage of time spent in an explicitly honorable way. Meaningful, to be more specific. As much as he had appeared to brush it off, the one year marker of his sobriety had been something awe inspiring, even if he had little patience to twaddle with commemorative chips. It was in this vain that he could appreciate the celebration of birthdays when one had made either a fantastic impact or represented a remarkable existence.

He could appreciate the celebration of one birthday in particular.

Joan’s.

Thirty-seven years of life, full of twists and turns that only someone as strong willed as Joan Watson could withstand, and a series of minute shifts in the arrangement of the universe had landed her in Sherlock’s path when he needed her most. Even if it fit nowhere within the realm of a logical mind, he couldn’t help but to ponder fate. Fate had been something he’d blamed and cursed when then-Irene had died, an entirely fictional entity that Sherlock thought raging against might supply some sort of outlet. As it was now, fate was what brought him the most magnificent, illuminating, surprising being he’d ever met to his doorstep.

_No,_ Sherlock thought. _Wrong again._

Joan had delivered herself to the Brownstone by way of her compassion and skill, her desire to rebuild the lives of others in the process of rebuilding her own. Fate had not rooted her to the spot, either. That was owed entirely to her fascination with the work, their mutual love of the bizarre, her budding skill as a detective, and – Sherlock hoped – an interest and affection for himself.

Fate should not be given credit for what Joan Watson had managed to accomplish by way of will.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“You know,” Joan started as she reentered the flat, pulling off her shoes with all the grace of a charging rhinoceros. She couldn’t be blamed. Only a mad woman would not free her limbs from the confines of those things the moment she was able. “I thought that my mom might have eased up on the nagging since deciding she was alright with what I’m doing. I was, apparently, _really_ wrong.”

Though she didn’t really expect a compassionate or overly-interested response, Joan had grown accustomed to receiving at least a disinterested groan. When no sound returned to her ears, she sighed softly, removing her coat and advancing into the kitchen with the aim of filling her body with something warm and preferably sweet. The sight that met her was far from what she was used to seeing when entering the room.

The very first thing that registered was how completely spotless the room was, counters smooth and undisturbed by whatever filth Sherlock was experimenting on at any given moment. It even smelled clean; not overly so to the point of giving off an aroma of lemon or bleach, but just enough that the neutrality of the air was able to settle instead of being warded off by something festering and pungent.

After recovering from the shock of cleanliness, what caught her eye were the carefully arranged plates on the table, and the circular dish that sat in the middle. Upon it was something that oozed decadence at even the briefest of glances, a cake that looked pristine enough that its edibility might need to come into question.

“Honey-glazed pear cake!”

The voice was simply booming behind her, half with pride and half with amusement at the clearly thought out and thoroughly intentional surprise. As Joan whipped around, she found Sherlock invading her space, hands clasped behind his back and chest jutting out in the manner that she’d come to know meant he was quite pleased with himself and no amount of reasoning would convince him otherwise.

“Stop doing that,” she breathed, offering a smack to his chest before letting her glance fall to the cake and back to him. “You made cake?”

“I made a _birthday_ cake for _you_ ,” he emphasized with characteristically energetic waves of his hands. “For all the years it has been around, I still find the internet to be quite a modern marvel. Recipes galore, cooking techniques. I could have done this while supervised via webcam by a five-star chef if I was willing to part with a great deal of cash.”

“You made me a birthday cake,” Joan smiled, completely ignoring Sherlock’s ramblings and stepping over to the table. As she seated herself, her partner began fussing about with cutting a perfectly portioned slice, and Joan took the opportunity to dip her finger into the glazing and bring it to her lips.

“You are aware that you’re ruining the carefully crafted composition, are you not?” Sherlock said with thinly-veiled irritation as he placed a plate and fork before the woman who was all-too-clearly enjoying removing the sticky substance from the tip of her finger. He dropped himself into his own seat around the corner of the table from Joan, crossing his legs and folding his hands within his lap.

“This is your honey, isn’t it?”

“Mhmm.”

“And I’m guessing you spent all day teaching yourself how to cook?”

“It wasn’t _all day._ I can cook… even if it largely consists of eggs.”

The noise that Joan emitted was almost sinful as she indulged in the first bite, and Sherlock didn’t bother to hide the enormously pleased smirk that slithered its way across his features.

“Good?”

“It’s amazing. Seriously,” came the response, though it was muffled the slightest bit by her insistence to get another bite. It wasn’t a shoveling of food, however. Joan was much too graceful for anything of the sort. “You aren’t eating any?”

“I’m quite content to watch you enjoy it,” he replied in earnest. “That is, in itself and for various reasons, enjoyable for me.”

A companionable silence sat between them as Joan enjoyed her gift. The tart of the pears combined with the nearly bitter sweetness of the honey was a combination that she hadn’t known she longed for. True to his word, Sherlock simply did keep his eyes upon her as she indulged, and it occurred to her vaguely and somewhere in the back of her mind that it should be disconcerting. It wasn’t.

Enthralled with studying his favorite specimen by far, it took three utterances of his name before Sherlock focused his gaze and acknowledged that he was being spoken to.

“Go start a fire and I’ll clean up,” Joan ordered gently, standing and gathering her plate and utensil.

“Nonsense,” Sherlock replied, moving to his feet as well and prepared to stop her. “It’s your birth-“

“Yeah, it’s my birthday,” Joan cut him off with a chuckle. “And you made me a lovely cake, which is more acknowledgement than I was expecting. You put effort into it and I’m really touched. Seriously. Thank you. But you’ve got to be as cold as I am.”

Sherlock remained standing in front of her, shrugging one shoulder. His temperature gauge was extremely skewed.

“Go,” she offered him a nudge of her hip, and he willfully obliged.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Comparatively speaking, when gauged with the rest of their frankly modest interactions thus far, Sherlock thought it was very forward move when Joan seated herself across his thighs, skirt riding up slightly as her lean legs settled on either side of his hips. It was this way that he did finally feel the chill of her body, evident even through the fabric of his jeans, but more so through the cool touch of her hands against his neck.

“The fire is going, if it’s warmth you’re seeking out,” he murmured, hands ghosting hesitantly over her thighs before reaching up to settle on her clothed hips. Never in his life had he been nervous to touch a woman who was blatantly offering her consent and agreement. Then again, he had never met a woman that he was as cautious of as Joan. It wasn’t for fear of breaking or spoiling her as Joan was anything but fragile or naïve. More likely was his fear of doing anything to discomfort her or drive her away. Though verbalizing it was a task that required him great effort, it wasn’t a secret that he regarded Joan as far too vital to lose.

“Really?” Joan answered, brushing her thumbs absently over the stubble-lined jaw of the man that was somehow both relaxed and tense beneath her. Pointedly, she leaned forward, taking Sherlock’s mouth with her own in a manner that left nothing about her intentions open to interpretation. Her lips were as fierce and biting as her words could be when filled with passion, though it was definitely a good thing that the passion coursing through her now was of a different variety.

“You taste of honey,” Sherlock breathed as soon as he was able, running his tongue across his lips as if to devour every trace of her that was left upon him, ever hint of sweetness and tang and something else that belonged entirely to Joan.

“Better than morning breath?” she replied.

“Infinitely,” he responded and merged their mouths together once more.

He set out in a rhythm to taste her, from the dip behind her teeth to running the length of her tongue which seemed to be performing the same examination upon him. Hands grasped wherever they felt inclined to roam, one of Joan’s evidently content to card its fingers through Sherlock’s hair and offer the occasional slow, steady pull of nails that sent a shiver straight through him. In response, Sherlock dared to let his hands fall upon bare skin, the stimulation of the warm contact almost too much for him to process. He’d scarcely touched Joan in such a manner, both far too gentle and hesitant with each other, both too concerned with pushing things too far. But now, with Joan pushing forward slightly against him, he was emboldened with permission and let himself stray upward, slow and steady as to leave ample room for an order of cessation.

Such a thing never came, and it happened that his fingers had just slipped beneath the hem of Joan’s skirt as they were forced to break apart for breath. They maintained eye contact for a long moment, not lost within each other but studying thoroughly, Sherlock gliding a soft rhythm and pushing further on each upward stroke, delighted to feel the goose bumps arise over Joan’s skin and prickle up in response to his touch.

As her fingers began to work deftly and skillfully over the buttons of his shirt, Sherlock couldn’t help smirking and craning his neck forward so that he could peruse the expanse of Joan’s neck with lips, tongue, and a hint of teeth.

“Is cooking all one must do to bed you?” he murmured, his breath hot and imposing against her skin as his hands found their way around her hips and moved over her clothed backside. The action inspired her to push back against him, and he responded in kind by firming his grip and pulling her forward.

“Do you think I’m that easy?”

“I’ve still yet to know exactly whatto think of you.”

“Good. Wouldn’t want you getting bored,” Joan responded, leaning back enough to free his shirt from its position tucked into his trousers.

“My dear Watson, I will never tie of nor solve you. Worry not.”

Her hands were very obviously studied, and in a swift motion she had pushed his shirt down and over his shoulders, though there was a snag that caused a bit of knowing laughter as she made to unbutton the cuffs that were currently assisting in restraining him. Though he did quite like the vulnerability of his position, skin bore openly and at Joan’s disposal, his curiosity and insatiable need was too driving for the moment for him not to attempt leveling the playing field. Much to his relief, Joan had no quarrel with ridding herself of the offending article, and did so with every bit of grace that she normally presented herself with.

He was vaguely aware that his hands were greedy, needy and searching in a way that was so open and blatant that is should have cause him discomfort, but failed to. As he took in every new part of her skin that was laid before him – trailing over her back and belly, the smoothness of her sides and skirting around the edges of her breasts – Sherlock came to know that it wasn’t enough to touch her. He needed to gather her into his senses, let her invade every pore until nothing existed apart from her for a brief stretch of time.

“We need-“ he cut himself off, finding his voice croaky and hoarse with pure, unfiltered desire and leaned forward to settle his face into Joan’s chest, jaw only just pressed against the lace lining of her bra. “Bedroom. I must be able to worship you in a manner that is thorough and befitting for a marvel so significant, and a puzzle so complex. That is virtually impossible in this position.”

He could feel the force of her breath leaving her in a surprised and affected huff, smiling against her skin and gripping her tighter as she pressed a kiss against the top of his head.

“I wish I could say something half as romantic as that,” Joan replied, moving to stand and stepping out of her skirt as she did so, left bare in only undergarments, her body backlit by the warming fire. Sherlock mourned the temporary loss, but did not hesitate to openly admire the view it provided him. “But I’ll just stick with what I’ve got. I want you, too. Come on.”

Her outstretched hand beckoned to him, and it took Sherlock only a moment to emerge out from under the foggy shadow of desire enough to rise and accept it.

It felt like only seconds before they were settled atop her sheets, jointly deciding that Sherlock’s own room might require a thorough cleaning before being remotely inhabitable by someone other than himself. (Though there had been a brief stop for Sherlock to retrieve a condom. The very last thing either of them wanted or needed was a child in the mix, and though Joan had her own protection method, it was much more logical to double up when the stakes were so high.) Somewhere along the way, he’d rid himself of his jeans and eclectic socks, and so the slow movement between them was skin-on-skin, heat against heat, and Sherlock was reasonably certain that he’d never been so stimulated from something that was so mundane in comparison to his usual sexual practices.

His mouth had begun its exploration, journeying over bare shoulders and down the center of Joan’s chest, pausing at the swell of her breast. Head tilted up, he raised an eyebrow at her, silently questioning and seeking permission. Rather than verbalize or nod her consent, Joan only bent an arm behind her in a limber motion and unhooked the clasp, leaving the offending article hanging loosely and at Sherlock’s mercy. A grin upon his face and focus in his eyes, his hands caressed her shoulders as the straps were pushed down her arms. In time, the garment was tossed aside and joined his trousers upon the floor.

Each breast was examined first by touch, not in a fondle of unconscious lust, but in a deliberate pathway to understand which touches made her shiver and what amount of pressure was appropriate in discovered sensitive spots. He was well aware that not all women were fantastically stimulated by attention to this particular detail, but Joan seemed to be quite enjoying herself if the beating of her heart and the growing heat of her skin was anything to judge by.

When Sherlock’s mouth dipped to let his tongue study a perked nipple, the first gasp fell from Joan’s lips. It sent a jolt of heat and electricity straight through him, bouncing from head to toe before settling just between his legs. He let his attentions linger there, testing with swirls of the tongue and the hollowed pressure of sucking and cataloging each and every response that she offered him, ranging from contented sighs to the pads of her fingers pushing into his shoulder.

Mouth wandering southward, his chest was moving to settle between her thighs, and it was then that he could truly feel the heat that Joan was radiating. His reaction was much more tangible at a glance, a stark outline beneath the stark black cloth of boxer-briefs, but it took being so close to fully understand just how reactionary she had been. His undergarments were quickly becoming constricting and – partially in the vain of neither being left too unequally vulnerable – he stumbled over himself a bit to let them fall to the floor.

It was with great pleasure that he realized Watson was studying him with the same greedy glance that said she could never fill herself enough with the sight of him. The scrutiny and intensity of her glance caused a visible twitch in his nearly fully engorged erection, the effect surely not lost on her as she smirked in a knowing manner. Deftly, as if sensing the desperation that was coursing through him, Joan tossed away the last of her clothing and simply waited for Sherlock to return.

Eager as he was to gain his own gratification, Sherlock had not yet finished the worship he’d promised to the woman lying before him. She didn’t offer herself to him blindly as an act of selflessness, but instead was allowing him the chance to pleasure her, to please her and prove himself worthy of being in her naked presence. It was a bit skewed, he knew, but he found a thrill in sexual submissiveness, of indulging in a woman who understood he needed the guidance and firmness or he would become lost in thought. On some level, he was certain that Joan understood that, especially as she let her knees fall to the side and gazed at him expectantly.

Sherlock did not waste his time once beckoned, not when Joan was waiting for him, open and permissive, for him to demonstrate his aptness. He wondered vaguely if she was recalling the stories (well, if one could call completely true accounts stories) of him and his brother’s former fiancée just as he was trying to chase off the thought of Joan being bedded by Mycroft. He only realized that he was taking pause over the idea when her fingers became entwined in his hair, not quite tugging or pushing, but with a definite urging that was somewhere between impatience and desperation. He shook the thought away in an instant.

Sherlock placed a gentle nip to her thigh before leaning in toward the heat, running his tongue from her entrance to the swell of her clit, pausing there to tighten his muscle and circle around it with unmistakable skill. It didn’t seem that she’d quite been expecting the sensation, Sherlock’s hand splayed across her abdomen and able to feel the tightness as she attempted to not writhe and separate herself from his mouth. Her own mouth had choked out a moan, brittle and unexpected before smoothing itself out into a composed but genuine sound of pleasure. He hummed in response and continued his ministrations, which only served to egg her on further.

Running his tongue across his dampened lips and reveling in her taste, Sherlock’s hands moved to rest upon Joan’s hips in a grip that he made certain was neither too harsh nor too loose. Before any question could be made about it, his lips returned to their former position, wrapping around her swollen clit and alternating between a slow, steady pleasure and bursts of rapid pulsation. It was then that she truly understood why he was pressing down against her, body unsure of whether it wanted to push against him or pull away from the stimulation that seemed almost too much to bear. It mattered not as he held her in place, but did let one hand stray to sink a finger into her.

Between the unrelenting motions of his mouth and the slow, deliberate thrusting of his finger for minutes, occasionally hooking and adding just another level of pressure, it was of little surprise to either of them when orgasm tore through her. Sherlock did his best to follow her movements with his mouth, determined to draw it out as long as humanly possible, chasing her warmth and taste for selfish purposes all the same. When she fell back boneless against the blankets, he followed.

“I don’t remember the last time anyone did that,” Joan panted, smoothing over Sherlock’s hair as he breathed against her shoulder, attempting to regain an acceptable amount of oxygen into his lungs and calm his own body.

“Yes, well. The hope is that I’ll be the last to do so,” Sherlock returned, hands gliding over her sides and hoping dearly that he wasn’t simply crushing her. For all her might and domineering manner, she still was quite a slight woman.

“Mm,” Joan hummed, and they let the only sound in the room be their steadying breath and the familiar sounds of traffic outside of the window. Sherlock, however, was only able to let the silence simmer for so long before propping himself up on his elbows and peering down at the sated woman below him.

“I should like to make clear that I am… content with whatever manner in which you wish to proceed,” he started, face serious but still heated with arousal. “However, I should like to ask if you would mind terribly if I were to request that you take the lead.”

Joan shifted wordlessly with a soft smile, guiding them until their positions were switch, Sherlock planted on his back with Joan hovering overhead.

“I prefer that,” she responded, much to his surprise and pleasure. “I get too bored just letting someone huff and puff away above me. I like to set my pace,” she added, smoothing her hands over the plane of his chest and dipping her mouth to his shoulder, her kisses much harsher and more bruising than his own.

As she pulled back, Sherlock could see within her eyes that she was as much enthralled as he was, though her impatience was much more palpable. The hand that pulled upward in a slow stroke across his length said as much, and the breath escaped his lungs as a startled huff. Her motions were purposefully slow, watching carefully his reactions, every twitch of his facial muscles that he was no longer trying to conceal, the flutter of his eyelids and the catch of his breath as she dragged her thumb across the tip of him. It was pure torture in the best of ways, letting himself lie at the mercy of her, the truest of any dominate woman he’d been with in the way that she took on the caring and grounding role as much as pleasure and control. It seeped into their life in all aspects, but not in such a way that crossed any social boundaries, but in a way that only the two of them truly understood. He needed her to guide him, and she needed him to ground her.

The rip of the condom wrapper broke the erratic sound of his breathing, eyes forcing themselves open to watch her. Briefly, he grinned as he realized she’d had to resort to using her teeth on the package after a seeming struggle with her hands.

“Shut up,” she bit in response, though a smile was forming at the corners of her mouth as well.

The sensation of the condom rolling on was not erotic in and of itself – sheathing himself in rubber constriction never was – but watching the roll of Joan’s hand as she slipped it on was. He groaned, letting his head drop back against the pillows.

“I do warn you that I don’t expect to hold out for very long at current,” Sherlock mumbled as Joan reappeared in his line of vision. “Apologies for any disappointment.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she replied, craning up to kiss him before leaning back into a sitting position. “We’ll have a lot more opportunities to draw it out, promise.”

It was immediately after the utterance of the reassurance that Joan’s hand was around him again, positioning him as she took him in. It took every ounce of restraint that he possessed not to buck up into her heat, but restraint in the bedroom luckily happened to be something that he had in abundance. His thumbs dug into her inner thighs as she settled, her own hands rested upon his biceps, nails having no quarrels with digging into his skin. They stayed settled like that for what seemed like minutes, absolutely still save for involuntary twitches of muscles, grounding themselves enough to hold each other’s glance. It was meant to be an activity in calming them both, but while it did steady out their breathing, both only found the connection more arousing, him buried inside of her and her completely surrounding him.

When her restraint began to waver, Joan moved, digging her knees into the mattress to provide her some leverage to raise and lower herself, as well as pushing down upon Sherlock’s arms for help. What began as intentionally slow quickly – _very_ quickly – gave way to a more rapid pace, the roll of Joan’s hips completely deliberate in stimulating her in all of the right ways. It was quite easy to tell that Sherlock was enjoying himself, eyes unsure whether they wanted to screw shut in pleasure or gaze upon the beauty that moved atop him, her hair brushing against his cheek steadily and the sweat of her body mingling with his own.

She hardly stopped her movements as she came a second time, though they did slow and stutter a bit. There were no screams of his name, no vociferous noises at all, only the soft combination of moans and near whimpers that Joan emitted between gasps of breath, body spasms curling her forward in contrast the how they’d stretched her taut before.

“Beautiful,” Sherlock managed to make out, heat pooling in his own belly as she moved still.

In a motion that surprised him, her long fingers were wrapped around his wrists as Joan wrench his hands away from her thighs and pinned them against the mattress on either side of his head. _Oh,_ he thought. _She is lovely._ Leave it to Joan to understand exactly what he needed without him vocalizing a word about it. His head turned to the side, mouthing absently and somewhat incoherently against her wrist as he could feel the pressure building in his fingers from the lack of circulation. When Joan’s head tilted down, lips against his temple, every thought was cleared from his mind as his tension released, unable to stop himself from thrusting up to meet her in blind lust.

“Hey,” he felt more than heard the soft voice in his ear as his eyes reopened. Blinking slowly, he registered Joan’s face, cheeks flushed and looking immensely sated. “You slipped away for a second there.”

“Tends to happen,” Sherlock said, wetting his lips and swallowing thickly as Joan removed herself, doing him the favor of tying off the condom and trashing it as he was far too gone to attempt any sort of complicated movement.

As Joan settled down on the mattress beside him, Sherlock couldn’t help but to roll into her warmth, head settled just above her breast and an arm draped lazily across her hips. Even though the vulnerability that he experienced after such a romp was present, it was quickly quieted by the gentle trail of her nails across his scalp, her other hand resting upon the forearm that held her in place.

“You really do get submissive when it comes to this, don’t you?” she inquired, no bite of ridicule or disapproval in her tone, simply statement.

“I make no secret of it,” he responded. “You would make an excellent dominate if you ever wished to explore the matter. I have numerous supplies.”

He could feel her laugh reverberate against his cheek, rumbling through her chest and eventually trailing away into a soft sigh.

“One thing at a time, Sherlock,” she said, grasping at the spare blanket to throw across them before the chill of the room set in, both of their eyes fighting the urge to slip closed.

“Though I should say that I’m completely open to exploring it with you.”

Humming happily, the man nuzzled against her.

“You’ll do brilliantly as in all things, Watson. Of that much I am certain.”


End file.
